


The Fluffiest of Fluff

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Could I request for some starrison?? Like really fluffy and way too in love with each other hahah oh whoops isit too specific?' George and Ringo are HYPERGLYCEMICALLY cute.





	

“ _Here comes the sun, little Ringo…_ ”

George giggled as he strummed at the guitar, and Ringo nuzzled up to him, smiling as his lips pressed against what little of George’s collarbone showed above his t-shirt.

“You know,” George murmured, and Ringo looked up at him, blue eyes like the sky above them in their openness and clearness. “I don’t reckon I’m ever gonna get tired of this.” He leaned down and kissed Ringo’s head, and Ringo gently laid his square fingers on George’s shoulder as George plucked at the strings aimlessly.

“I’m okay with that, like,” Ringo murmured, and nuzzled up closer to George, fingers sliding under his t-shirt sleeve to touch the soft skin of his shoulder. “Can’t really seduce yeh by playin’ the drums at yeh, though…”

“Fairy, with yer seducin’.” George grinned a fangy grin, and set the guitar down next to himself on the soft, green grass, before rolling over to lie face to face with his boyfriend, who tucked himself under the lankier man’s chin. “Yeh love it. Yeh blush when I play to you.” Ringo wrapped himself around George and closed his eyes, taking in the scents around him; George’s aftershave and cigarette smoke, and beyond that the smell of crushed grass and spring air and-

George’s fingers lightly settled against his head, and then stroked through his dark hair, and Ringo felt almost queasy with love for a moment as he rested against him, and then pushed himself up so he was leaning over George.

“Fairy? Me? You’re the fairy,” he smirked, and pinned him down, pressing a series of tiny kisses to George’s throat as the guitarist laughed, trying to push him off.

“Sod off, lad, it tickles!”

Across the field, on a picnic mat, Paul turned to John.

“And people say _we’re_ queers.”

“Don’t lump them in with me,” Brian muttered dourly from the other side of John, who was staring in mild horror. “They’re an embarrassment.”


End file.
